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4 Days til Departure

Leonard Cohen, singer/songwriter, professes there is no cure for love. My question is: Is there a cure for a chaotic mind, loneliness, hyperactivity, grief, and desire. I don’t mean taking a pill to help focus on one thought at a time. I don’t mean doing something kind for someone less fortunate. I don’t mean meditation to slow one’s body down or  crying when the urge comes on doesn’t solve the grief process. And by golly why would want to get rid of desire. Each of these ideas have their merit. My challenge is to discover a one stop solution to all these ailments immediately.

Last night I became so overwhelmed I think I had my first anxiety attack. My hands were shaking while I paced from the kitchen. It was a mess with dishes, and newspapers, and pictures scattered on every space of every counter. Like a bull in a china shop I switched directions and stomped  to the other side of the house. Raging into the guest room where my clothes were piled so high the vibration caused a landslide.

Reminding myself to send some writings to my coach I ran upstairs to my office. After the 3rd iteration I noticed I still left out a whole section. With that awareness I forcefully pushed my harmless lap top up against the window at the back of my desk.  I practically knocked the wooden chair over while rushing to get out of it. Without a thought I pounced downstairs and made a cup of coffee; not just my typical morning joe when I pour boiled water over a paper filter filled with the cheapest store brand coffee I can find. i Nope. Last night I got on a stool and carefully removed my 3 cup French Press off the tippy top shelf. Delicately I rinsed it out. Then, using my hair dryer I made sure the glass decanter was bone dry. I then used my spritzer bottle of vinegar diluted with water to coat the container. Using a clean Brawny paper towel I again dried it. Lastly, I gave it a cool water rinse.

Slowly I transferred six heaping tablespoons of my favorite Dunkin Donuts Columbian coffee into the decanter. By this time the whistling tea pot was calling. Steamy, bubbly water streamed from the spout into the decanter.  The indescribable sound of the water stirring up the coffee grinds softened my mood. Finally, just watching the coffee and water mix while the steam penetrated my sinuses soothed my mind.

I forgot about the repeated e-mails to my coach. I sent my sister a text. Then, subconsciously I wondered into my bedroom, locked the door, and plopped on the bed without undressing. While my eyelids were closing I covered myself in my sentimental green Marmot sleeping bag that Ron bought me in Idaho while on our first cross country tent camping trip. Next thing I knew it was 5 am.

 

 

 

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8 Days til Departure

This is scary or am I just upset? Or I am upset when I get scared. It is just those dam pack rats. I thought I had an effective system. Last night as a trial I left the van in a different location outside of the garage. Dam those ubiquitous desert varmits. Sure enough the brat or brats chewed the paper towel on which I had a bar of Irish Spring soap. I was told they don’t like the strong smell of that brand of soap. Ha, the brat knawed on the soap and chewed the paper towel.

In 8 days I am leaving for almost three months. I have a friend who agreed to check the vehicle at least once a week. To hire someone to check the car every single day is not reasonable. I can leave bright LED lights on in the garage. If the electricity goes out for any reason, what then?

Picking up the chewed pieces of paper towel my breathing became shallow. This was not so much because I cringe at the thought of seeing a live rat. It was because again I am faced with solving a problem on my own, a problem I would have easily passed on to Ronald. Ronald is not here. So began a miserable morning of grief.

Intuitively, I cleaned up the towel crumbs and removed the bar of soap. I decided it is best I keep the van in the garage when not in use. To further my skill navigated this 24 foot long home away from home I again backed SasseaVan into its specially designed garage slip. This was my second backing it in experience. Wow, it does get easier. In the garage I keep the engine hood up, point an anti-varmit sound emitting gadget at the engine, decorate the engine with Irish spring soap, a few spritz of peppermint and go on on my way.

During my 2 mile walk around the north and south loop of Buffalo Drive, I introduced myself to a neighbor who was walking in the opposite direction. Listening to Pandora on my Bose headphones, I broke down crying, sobbing uncontrollably when Eric Clapton’s rendition of “You Look Beatiful Tonight.” How many times did Danny play that tune on the electric guitar he rebuilt? Once he blocked the front door to prevent me from going out while he sat on a kitchen stool silently mouthing the words. He did not sing, at all. He played so precisely, by ear. He never read music. But, I diverge.

When I got to the mailbox the movement of my arms twisting around to take my backpack off and the jiggling of the key to open the box transitioned me from a sobbing sally to an angry bitch. Forcefully I stuffed the mail into my pack, then walked with a vengeance back home. I kicked every pebbly stone (and there are a bazillion) on the tenth of a mile back to the house.

Inside, I filled the kettle with enough water for several cups of coffee. On a misty rainy day this is turning out to be coffee will be my friend. First, though, I drowned my sorrow in a big bowl of cheerios, raisins, coconut and walnuts. Usually I put in enough almond milk to moisten the cereal. Today, I filled the bowl to the brim. It’s a big bowl,,,

Well, I guess I am talked (written) out for today’s blog. With 8 days to go, my stomach is in a knot, my legs are tense, and my mind is telling me that this is a scary time in my life. I so miss my life mate and my husband. Two wonderful men, , ,

Now, just as I was ending this a friend sent me a video. The message says, “This is for you. It had me in tears.” I instantly wrote back, “I’m scared to watch it.” Then, I shut the computer off. Maybe later I will watch it. For now, I’ll go play the piano…

 

 

 

 

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I Believe

          It was about two hours after I arose from a tumultuous night’s sleep when I sent a text to Norine, a new found friend here in SOCO (Southern Colorado). A few days ago we talked about sharing a home-made pizza. I wanted to confirm the plan. Her reply included a reminder for me to go water the sunflowers she taught me to germinate, then plant.

About two weeks ago, under Norine’s guidance, I began the process of germinating sunflowers seeds I bought for feeding the birds. A week later 20 little plants emerged from the dry dusty dirt where I planted them. Keeping a watchful eye, I continued to water them in the morning sun and the evening sky. Two days ago I was sadly surprised. With an angered curiosity I studied the area where the healthy looking green sprouts werethriving just a day before. That’s right I said where the sprouts were. Overnight they disappeared. Gone.

Using what Ron called my Sherlock Holmes detective skills I bent down to examine every inch of the dirt within a 3-yard radius. “Who ate my sunflowers?” I whispered out loud. Two indentations about 4 inches wide were noted. Each indent had loose dirt pushed to one side. There weren’t  any claw like features ruling out the possibility of a bear. I wasn’t sure if those were my prints from previous days when I was tending my seedlings. Still, I was dismayed.

When Norine stopped by later that afternoon for a tea sipping visit, I lamented about how the baby sunflower seeds sprouted then began to peek up through the dirt. I shared my joy of experiencing the miracle of growing flowers from seed to the disappointment of another example of life’s bitter sweetness. To soothe my soul we turned our thoughts to the belief that nature follows the little fish get eaten by the big fish theory. Still, I want to know who ate or stole the seedlings. How dare????

As this sunny Sunday progressed my consternation over the demise of my sunflowers erupted into a pleasant surprise. After Norine reminded me to do my morning watering I almost believed in God, or Jesus, or something. Just as I do every morning I filled my red watering can and strolled down the driveway. I stopped to say good morning to my garden size ‘Train that Could.’ Pausing to primp up the petunias growing in the coal car I said a silent prayer thanking mother nature for blessing me with this awesome 4 acres in a high plains desert far from the sea life I am still passionate about.

Moving along in body and spirit, I tilted my head toward the eastern sky, I swear I thought I saw a miracle. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How did I not see this sunflower growing? How can a sunflower go from its germinated shell, to 3 feet high overnight? WTF, , ,

Reminding myself to exhale I came to my senses when I was overcome with another uncontrollable bout of tears. Without further thought I garnered my sadness and appreciation, then, sauntered back to the house.  Inside I rolled out Bob’s Gluten Free Pizza Dough, put some Michael Martin Murphy tunes on my i- phone, cranked up my Bose speaker, and climbed what Ron and I call our home’s stairway to heaven, kissed his picture, and wrote this for my blog.

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The Little Train That Could

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A friend from Everglades City, Judy, posted this comment in response to my last posting about changing WTF from its use of the f-bomb to an alternative mindset, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. She stated:  A creative mindset for making a positive reversal in life’s endeavors!

After reading Judy’s comment I was encouraged to change my thoughts and behavior. It seems my mind has become scattered. My goal to write a memoir keeps slipping down the priority list. There are so many things to do. To seriously write I need a clutter free desk. I need my kitchen table to look like it is ready for a meal and not for an  array of photos to be sorted.

 I want my backyard to look more inviting with the trash can and air conditioning condenser hidden by a nice concrete wall, I want the deck in the front yard to be adorned with selected stones taken from other areas of my wooded 4  acre lot. I want to socialize with friends who are going out of their way to keep me safe to enjoy life’s little pleasures. Then, there are the daily OM lessons I subscribed to. For pete’s sake I need to take the time to learn what OM stands for. Lastly, I need to stop thinking about buying the 40  foot trimaran I have my eye on until I get more information about it.

While thinking about what to think about I went downstairs to warm up my cup of joe. Peeking out the kitchen window I saw the little wooden train my friends, Debbie and Richard, convinced me to buy for $5 at yesterday’s garage sale. Since I first read the classic book, “The Little Train That Could,” it has been a favorite. During my career as a school counselor I frequently read it to students of all ages. Now, that great symbol of encouragement sits right alongside my driveway leading to my door.

While staring at the primary colored train my mind did make a positive reversal. With a  few deep breaths I made a mental list of my priorities. First, tidy up my desk so I can spend two hours focused on writing my memoir.  Second, go outside to put more blocks on the wall. Third, experiment with a 60s hairstyle for tonight’s sock hop. Three things are plenty for one day. All else will wait until tomorrow.

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**For those interested in learning more about this classic “children’s” story, written by Watty Piper – pen name for Arnold Munk, I encourage you to do a google search. I was happy to know that “The Little Train that Could” is ranked along with Alice in Wonderland as one of the top 100 children’s stories.

 

 

 

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WTF

No need to translate WTF. I know a gal who uses the expression quite often. Then, suddenly when the reality of losing the second love of my life the only thought in my head for the past week is WTF.

Since I was in junior high school I developed the habit of dropping the F bomb. I never did at work, at least not in front of students and their parents. Outside of school it was F this, O F, Fing thing a ma jib.

Now all I can say is WTF….

 

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Diets that WORK

With the infinite number of books, blogs and nauseating ads for the perfect diet, even the non diet diets advertised, I am stumped to wonder why two particular diets proven to work, is never mentioned. Have you ever seen a tabloid headline with the words, BREAK-UP DIET, or WIDOW DIET.  Yet, oh my gosh how they work.

Sadly, though in order to succeed with the break up diet, first coined in my world, by my wonderfully talented friend Maryanne, you have to experience an unpleasant, unwanted divorce from a partner. Whether legally married or not I will be using the terms married and divorce to mean all actions the same without government interference. The term divorce meaning a separation to include such a parting of ways due to death.

Anyway, the thought occurred to me that my eating has slowed to a pace I emotionally prefer. Certainly, I never want anyone to feel emotional pain. That’s another subject. For now, I ask for thoughts about how to transform the weight loss of a break-up or death into a weight loss that doesn’t require these undesirable events.

Remember, my e-mail is:  sailorhiker@gmail.com 

 

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Letters I’ve Written, Blogging for Blabbing and Memoiring Maybe

Having been a blogger for about 20 years now, I finally decided to write my memoir. Writing with the intent of printing a book, though is different than blogging. Blogging, for me is way to vent, to puke out whatever thoughts come to my mind. There have been times when my blogging had a hidden theme. Themes included  a never before vocabulary word, using only 3 sentences in a paragraph, or admitting a less than desirable action.

Writing a memoir for the world to read is a little different. Committed to making others look good, to show their sunny side, and avoid any words that might upset or offend someone is a challenge. How does one bear their soul, share intimate stories, or explain deep feelings without offending?

What I do know is that I have a compulsion to write. When I graduated high school and my best friend at the time went off to college, I wrote to her every single day. A boy I liked, Frank,  at the time was serving our country as a soldier in Korea. I wrote and mailed him a letter every single day. He wrote back nearly every day, as well. Upon his return I learned he had been living with a little lovely during his time overseas. Though glad to end any possibilities with a romance I wish I kept the letters.

Forgetting about ‘boys’ I idled my time writing a story using the titles of songs. It went something like this:”Oh, Mr. Postman, look and see,” I “Aint Misbehavin.’ and I ‘Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” even though “All my Rowdy Friends” are having a “Blue Monday.”   On and on it went. As I recall it was at least ten pages handwritten filling both sides of notebook paper. If only I kept that as well.

So, from silly lyrics to assertively written letters in which I pour my heart out to people whose behavior leaves me feeling hurt or misunderstood, to blogging and now to memoir writing here I am blabbing on. What keeps me motivated with an unstoppable compulsion? It is an internal urge. What will propel me to writing a successful memoir though is my friend Linda McGarry, who holds me accountable for not just paying my bills on time, but for encouraging me to write.

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The Magic of Day

From darkness to daylight is magical, my favorite time of the day. Living in Cocoa, Florida the darkest hour meant get up and drive to the beach to catch the first wave at the crack of dawn. Living on SPRAY, dawn’s early light signaled the time to weigh anchor. After a good morning stretch, I would step up into the cockpit and be amazed as if I were in some wonderland. The sense of accomplishment resulting from forty years of learning what I could about sailing, the people who taught me and those who shared my many adventures all came into view. To this day every morning is greeted with the recognition of someone in my life; a principal I worked for, a student who touched my heart, or a disgruntled parent have equal time in my personal benediction.

Now, far from the sea, on the arid southern Colorado terrain, 7000 feet above sea level the miracle of daylight brings that same appreciation for all who have been a part of my life. From cousins like Peter Pearsall and Jane Trudeau Weisman, who I barely know, to my sister, Jane, whose caring for others is an admirable trait I lack, to family and friends along the way, I have visions of the faces of those I have had the privilege to know.

Two paragraphs ago, when I started typing today’s blog entry, I could only see the reflection of what is inside the house out my living room window. Now the Sangre de Cristo snow-capped mountains are coming into view. Gently rocking in synch with the swaying leaves on the pinon trees, mother nature and I are waving in a new day. A hint of sunshine is adding a red tinge to the earlier morning’s dark brown ground. A tiny bird flits from one feeder to the next.

Footsteps coming from the bedroom bring the joy of having a loved one to share another day. With Passover and Easter being celebrated around the world I will take time to add another stone to my appreciation garden. Each name I paint on a specially chosen stone is accompanied by a prayer of gratitude. With all the weirdness, frustration and joy, transitions from night to day, from surfing to cruising to mountaineering, from one love toward another, thankfully, I am a better me. Bless you!

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Bittersweet n Blue

Blue outerwear, a favorite color with twenty circular rows of stitching on each sleeve.

Stitches equal in length to the thickness of a toe nail.

Lightweight, expensive, name brand, stylish.

Worn alone or layered.

Compact, comfy perfect fit.

Hand warming pockets, zippered chest pockets, with hidden pockets inside.

Shiny lining.

Water resistant for sitting on a snow-covered log.

All the makings of a perfect piece of apparel.

Photogenic .

Silky smooth to the touch.

A perfect match for a couple in love.

A Yuppie garment usually detested in favor

Of Goodwill jackets usually embraced.

With all the goodwill it was meant to represent.

But didn’t quite measure up!

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